


A Butterfly For A Season

by bunnystealsyourcarrots



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anal Sex, Auto- erotic, Double Penetration, F/M, Porn with more Plot than originally intended, Public Sex, Smut, Time Travel, Tomione Smutfest 2019, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Fisting, darkish, fluff need not apply, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21624562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnystealsyourcarrots/pseuds/bunnystealsyourcarrots
Summary: In 1955, an unsentimental clerk met a woman who earned a second look. A masochist, a martyr, and most importantly, a gal generally not afraid to crush a butterfly or two.Written for Tomione Smutfest 2019 (Time Travel AU)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 39
Kudos: 321
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2019





	A Butterfly For A Season

It’s summer when Tom first realizes that she’s alive.

A single seed of sweat snaking down his neck during the brisk walk home from work at Borgin and Burke’s. The moisture seconds from staining his starched collar, but the clerk who prided himself on extreme self-awareness lifted his fingers. The catastrophe nearly averted before he noticed a faint brown smudge on his thumb. 

A sweet tooth stain.

A leftover Shock-o-Choc trail mocking him, and Tom's free hand reached into his robes.

He retrieved a monogrammed handkerchief to set all things back to calculated perfection again. A slip of silk to save the day, but before he could rub the irksome mark off, he ran into her. A sharp shared gasp. The books in the witch's hold smacking the ground outside of Flourish and Botts shop thanks to Tom looking down at the worst possible moment. The clumsiest kismet, but once his chin jerked up, the young woman before him twice knocked Tom Riddle's breath away. 

The first time she forced the air out of his lungs it was with the end of her bony elbow accidentally jabbing his chest when they'd both bent over to scoop up the books. The second time she stole his exhale was thanks to her purposeful, fiery look that telegraphed just how much she didn’t care for his slapdash apology. His presence. 

The beginnings of a formidable insult forming into something fearsome behind her bewitching brown eyes if Tom so much as had the polite gall to offer any further assistance, and his lips quirked.

He’d always had a soft spot for melted chocolate.

______________________________

Tom didn’t pursue relationships.

As a means to an end, he'd indulged in his fair share of dalliances in school and after. A silly witch, or ten, making the mistake of imagining him their one true love post-shag. However, Tom never replied in kind. 

By age sixteen, Tom had firmly decided that traditional relationships encouraged laughable visions of holy matrimony in women’s heads: a societal sickness that he had no intention of spreading. The last thing Tom wanted being a government-blessed ball and chain shackling him down after the former foster kid had grown so fond of freedom as an adult, and it’s no wonder that the twenty-seven year old preferred his carnal affairs with a transaction fee.

The understanding made clear before he unbuttoned his trousers that he’d fuck hard and leave quicker since he had absolutely no intention of ever allowing death to do him part from anyone.

So why then did his back straighten to attention when the witch he’d stumbled into before happened to enter his neighborhood pub a week later? 

His gaze snagging on her Jane Russell-inspired curls that were fashionably swept to one side to show off a fetching freckle-dusted neck. The gold infinity-shaped ring on her finger briefly glittering in the light when she pushed a wayward toffee-brown lock off her forehead, held her head higher afterward instead of demurely shying in front of an unfamiliar crowd. The rest of her figure tragically hidden beneath a maroon robe, but below mid-thigh, she was all shapely nylon covered legs that went on and on and deliciously on before ending in smart velvet emerald heels. 

Oh yes, she looked pretty enough for the pictures.

A welcome foreign invader when Tom was already bored of everybody on the block, and once she'd ordered a drink at the bar, he turned in his seat to offer her a smoke.

“It’s a nasty habit,” she scolded, sliding a cigarette out of his case and between her fingers. ”But aren’t those the best kind?”

"I couldn't agree more.”

In a welcome twist, they clicked this time around. Tom introducing her mischievous smile to his cockiest grin. Their rocky past forgotten when they could presently flirt, and Tom had confirmation that the attraction wasn't one-sided when the saucy minx leaned in close as if she'd known him forever; her playful intimacy accompanied by the scent of her gardenia perfume that circled his nostrils. The most common purchase found at any Woolworth's, but how extraordinary was she after Tom wandlessly summoned a flame to his finger, extended it towards her. Her dark lashes kissing her rosy cheeks on the inhale. A perfect picture of femininity sucking his caution away, but once she looked up, her eyes widened in recognition.

"Careful there," Tom chuckled at her choppy exhale, flicked the flame away.

"I know you," she accused, gesturing her cigarette at him. "You're the clumsy bloke who ran into me."

Tom placed a hand over his heart.

"Ah, I'm afraid I am guilty as charged."

"I had to wipe dirt off my book."

"I'll buy you another."

The witch scoffed before taking a calming sip of smoke. A simple choice for her of remaining on the road of continuously annoyed at him, or detouring into charmed, obviously battling inside her head, but when all was said and done, she settled for aloof.

"How lucky for you that I can't presently recall the name."

"Why don't we go back to your flat and give it a look then?" 

A good witch would blush after his forwardness. A prim wash of pink overtaking her fine features before she recoiled away from him. A sharp warning coming his way, but this bold as brass gal held out her arm to side-along apparate with a stranger who looked eager to devour her.

“Alright,” she smudged her cigarette out into an ashtray. “I’m game for you to pay for your mistakes.” 

___________________________________

How curious, Tom thought.

_A plain cottage so far from the city?_

The sound of a scream easily lost in the moonlit trees if he got lucky, and Tom's small smile went unseen by his host as she aimed her wand towards her elaborate door locks.

“Alohomora.”

In the role of thoughtful guest, Tom shut the door behind them.

A soft click. The intrigued intruder immediately sweeping his gaze around the single room lodging to catalog the fireplace roaring to life, the cozy worn-in chair beside it. The simple oak dining room table with two matching chairs beside bay windows, and in the center of the space- the witch’s bed. A plush place to lay her lovely head if she wasn’t busy poring over the massive collection of books that lined two walls.

As if reading his mind, she slid one off a high shelf.

“Here you are.”

Tom underlined the name with his fingertip. “Hmm,” he tapped it once, handed the book back. “It’s an engaging one.”

“You’ve read it? It only came out a few weeks ago!”

“I have," Tom evenly replied, a one eighty contrast to his host who was practically vibrating with the desire to engage in a spirited book discussion if only that wasn’t the furthest delight on his mind. “It put forward some quaint theories.” 

“Huh.”

“A couple unique opinions.”

“So...not the most groundbreaking book of nineteen fifty-five then?”

"It could be for some.” Tom casually lifted a shoulder before abruptly switching gears, "and you’re rather isolated out here, aren’t you? I mean, who knows what'll give you a thrill when you're someone who obviously prefers hiding away from good company.”

The witch’s jaw dropped. 

“I am, uh, a bit removed,” she awkwardly laughed, shrugging, “but why shell out more for rent when popping into the shop only requires a purposeful thought?"

“That’s a good point.”

It didn't pass Tom's notice that his host took a centering inhale before returning the book to its proper place. Her back to him. The comfort of a routine allowing her a second to regroup, and by the time she spoke again, Tom could hear her smirk. 

“Also, if I'm being entirely honest, I get first dibs on loads of fresh free herb fields.”

"A second good point for a fearless woman."

If he were a gentleman, Tom might next inquire about her family, her home village. Her likes. Her dreams and hopes and former school house. The usual superficial courting chit chat that built up into a polite fever pitch where- hours later- her head would suddenly tilt to encourage a respectfully cautious first kiss. The prettiest posturing as if he hadn’t repeatedly caught her attention fixed upon his mouth. 

Her desire to taste him as loud as the cabin was quiet.

Oh yes, the good manners withholding games were the normal path to passionate. 

If they were any other couple, he’d manipulate and sugarcoat as expected. But, fortunately for them, Tom wasn't a gentleman. No, his baseline in life could best be described as pathologically restless with a bone-deep refusal to ever surrender even one second of his life to anything useless, and the witch who'd invited him back to her layer had sufficiently made her case that she wasn’t a pearl-clutching kind of lady. For all those reasons and more, Tom took initiative. His fingers deftly unhooked the buttons at the top of her robe once he'd stopped behind her. The intention never to spook his prey this early- though didn't her body tremble under his touch. 

The lightest, loveliest gasp falling off her tongue when her garment hit the hardwood floor.

"I wonder if your point making prowess is why I have to have you," he quipped, slowly unzipping the back of her chiffon dress.

The paper-thin fabric peeling off of her skin as if she were a wild rose that he'd somehow ended up lucky enough to pluck to the stem, and he took his time.

His hands smoothing down her bared spine. 

A shiver for his efforts when he pushed fabric away with painstaking patience. 

"Or," he breathed out, bracketing her hips in his hold," it could be because you don't behave like other ladies around here. So quick to anger, to foolishly trusting, and to living alone and placing yourself in harm's way without a second thought."

"I survived a war," she glanced over her shoulder," what have I to fear anymore?" 

The sentiment came out bitterly cold instead of coy, but she unclasped the front of her bra. 

A hot shimmy out of satin.

"Why deny myself any second of joy after it was almost all lost?" 

"Oh, I am much obliged to your lack of restraint." Tom wrapped his arm around her waist. "What's your name, love?"

"Hermione-" she gasped, doubling down when his fingers worked into her knickers. The band of her nylons tight on his wrist as he sunk lower. A curl up and quickening pump. The most obscene wet sucking noise between her thighs. "My name's Hermione-"

She gripped the bookshelf.

A bow of her head.

A submissive treat too shy to look back, but she purred and whimpered and writhed.

A beautiful beggar urgently demanding that Tom give her more and more of his touch as if he didn’t live for the feel of something weakening in his hold. Her back arching for him. Her nails digging into the shelf. The utter lack of pretense between them proving how well suited they were to one another even before her thighs shook. A sudden throbbing pulse sucking his knuckles in deeper and faster into her. The edge of pain the only place that he’d stop, and Tom's lip curled in victory when she cried out.

“Please,” she sobbed, shuddering, “please.” 

He reluctantly withdrew, sucked her off his skin.

The sounds loud and lewd by her ear as he unbuckled his belt.

A slide of leather, a tear of the crotch of her pantyhose, and when he gripped her arm to turn her around, she moaned for him not to.

The request was practically tailor made for Tom as he loathed making eye to eye lies while between a woman’s thighs. The option of disconnected and dirty suiting him just dandy, and he palmed his hard cock as his free hand drifted from her shoulder to higher. Her neck so slim. So dainty and delicate that his fingers might cross when they wrap around in passion. In violent passing if Tom lost control as he too often pictured his hands around other people’s throats.

A hard squeeze getting him off.

A gagged breath making his heart race.

A press of his lips holding back the groan when he visualized the addictive snap, and his hips followed suit. 

He thrust into her.

A long, hard bottoming out.

A half second at most to catch their breath before Tom set a punishing pace. The shelf creaking. Hermione’s lush heat clutching around him even better than he’d imagined, and to keep from moaning her name, he sucked on his lip. The side of her neck. Everywhere he liked while she coated his cock with her cream. Her tight snatch. 

The milkiest froth dripping from her to the base of his shaft, and Tom looked away.

Oh fuck, did that overwhelm him. 

He wouldn’t last.

The mess they made was far too tasty to resist dropping to his knees to eat out her cunt, but as much as Tom looked forward to a filthy feast, he wasn’t anywhere near done being surrounded by her. No, he grabbed her thigh and hitched it up. A new angle to drill in a point. A relentless rhythm that sent her breathlessly chanting his name, and Tom never guessed that he’d ever get off to something so close to prayer.

“That feels-“Hermione whined, “You feel-”

Tom licked his lip.

“How do I feel?”

“Like I’m your favorite whore,” Hermione panted, voice hitching. “Like you want to say it.”

“Is that what you like?” Tom hissed, bruising his hold into her leg, ”To hear you’re replaceable?” he quickened his thrusts. “A common slut.”

“Mmm-”

“That all I want from you is your cunt.”

“Yes-” Hermione cried out, tensing around him, “I-I mean nothing to you-”

“You mean nothing to me.”

He pulled out, splattering her back with his low opinion.

___________________________

Tom lazily held up his wand. 

"Scourgify.”

It never ceased to amaze the wizard that one exhausted sounding word could return a woman’s skin to silky smooth and spunk free. The magical realms cum problem now, but Tom's mouth curled from amused to mystified after glancing down at himself. His drenched dress shirt wrinkled. His tie loose and limply hanging around his neck. The fucking frenzy over without his partner ever expecting him to bare his soul- or chest- before they'd climaxed, and oh did that brand of emotional indifference suit him quite right. Oh yes, he could comfortably place a Grand Canyon amount of space between him and a woman after he'd had her, and that's why when Hermione crossed the room to throw on a long-sleeved kimono, Tom compiled a list of excuses.

An early morning at work.

An errand requiring immediate running. 

An owl back home to check on. 

In order to avoid wounding the soiled dove’s fragile ego, Tom ran through his greatest hits of half-hearted lies in his head. Of course, she’d suggest he spend the night to help her feel less impulsive. A perfectly normal request that Tom had absolutely no intention of fulfilling even though he always expected this same post-coital song and dance from every woman who didn't accept Galleons for her goodies. 

However, Hermione hadn’t exactly spun in his arms for a hug after they'd finished fornicating. Instead, after tossing her knickers and pantyhose in the bin, she opened the bathroom door. The tap run with a wand flick. Her night routine set into motion without backpedaling into bashfulness after their risque coupling, and right before stepping inside, she reassuringly smiled.

“I hope you don’t mind terribly heading out early,” Hermione purred. “I have a busy day tomorrow.”

___________________________

At work, Tom’s thought didn’t once drift to her.

He set appointments.

He polished recent acquisitions.

He carried on with business as usual.

____________________________

It’s fall when Tom strolled by Hermione dining al fresco at a cafe.

A book and a triangle of quiche in front of her. 

A harsh wind nipping at his ears when she happened to look up from her meal, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline. The clear surprise at seeing him again catching her off guard, but she didn’t impulsively invite him to join her. No, for not the first time, Hermione pleasantly shocked him. When she could have made a scene, she dished out a little nod that Tom answered with a knowing smile before he continued past the cafe. 

A pleased twinkle in his black eyes for the rest of the way to his client’s home. 

It was a rather novel change up for Tom to feel anything close to a good mood outside of the dowager Smith’s residence, and he silently thanked Hermione for services rendered. On any given day, he ranked a meeting with the widow Hepzibah Smith- and the ten before it- as a step above jamming his dick in a door, but there he went again knocking on one. Their newest appointment all thanks to his work again requesting that Tom use his high cheekbones and charms to help part the old witch from another one of her oldest magical heirlooms. A compliment here or there loosening her jewels into his lap. The lonely lady all too eager to trade baubles for glittery conversation, and that morning, she let out a delirious coo before leading Tom towards her plastic-covered floral sofa.

“I have something of interest!”

“Oh,” Tom lowered his voice, a conspiratorial head tilt, “did you already tell Burke about it?”

“No!” she giggled, waving her decrepit house-elf over to serve them a spot of tea. “I made a note to keep these last few items for your gorgeous eyes only.”

“How kind you are.”

“How sweet you are to me,” she countered, dropped two lumps of sugar into her cup.

It took all of Tom’s patience not to cringe at the batty fool.

In her latest excessively ruffled robes, she reminded him of a fruit trifle. A layer of wobbly-white skin to raspberry robes to too-red lipstick as a cherry on top. A sickeningly sweet treat with no substance.

Her cloying, heavily-perfumed scent turning his stomach, but Tom forced out a winning smile for a commission.

“So, my dear Mrs. Smith, what wonderful items have you been hiding away from me?”

“A pair of earrings worn by the greatest jazz witch singer of our times.”

“Hmm,” Tom’s eyebrows furrowed. “Interesting.”

In fear of losing his paid affections, Hepzibah moved into action. 

“Ahh,” she drawled, creaking the plastic cover under her with every frantic movement as her ring-covered fingers fished around a velvet-lined treasure case on top of the coffee table. “I also have other rare items of interest!”

Her frazzled features boosted Tom’s mood. From his very first visit, he’d waited for her to offer him something of importance tied to House Hufflepuff. He’d heard rumors. A whisper of her connection to a magical object of such fame that he’d hoped to snatch it out from under his boss’s nose, and all those hopes that he’d patiently nurtured could taste Hepzibah's desperation to keep him close this time, to impress him. His heart thudded with anticipation that the hard work of tolerating his richest client's obnoxious presence had finally born rich fruits, but then Hepzibah’s expression sank. The most puzzling blankness glazing over her eyes. The invisible threads of a thought snipped in front of her, and her mouth opened and closed twice. 

“How odd,” she frowned, no longer rummaging. “I could of sworn that I meant to show you something more. But...I can’t for the life of me recall what it was.”

The pudding in woman form practically deflated in front of him. Her chin sinking into her jowls. Her shoulders slumping. A grand dame looking a damn shame, and Tom could summon not a single drop of empathy for her.

If he didn't know any better, he'd wonder if she’d had a memory ripped from her. If someone might have beaten him to the chase of swindling Hepzibah Smith and Obliviating her into dumbstruck. But, the witch had a whole stable full of stupid expressions, a knack for misplacing her marbles, and Tom had had enough of her tiring antics for one day.

In under twenty minutes, the clerk departed her house with no promises to return. 

A smudge of merlot-colored lipstick on his cheek.

The jazz-singer earrings tucked away safely in his pocket for resale at the shop, but Tom caught himself rubbing his chest on the disappointing walk back to the store. A peculiar ache taking root. The weirdest sensation burrowing inside of him that whispered that he’d lost something precious while feeling entirely too full inside his body, and he couldn’t shake it off.

____________________________

“Do you fancy a distraction?”

Hermione thoughtfully hummed. “I didn’t before,” she admitted, looking up at Tom in front of her table. The last of her name signed on her bill with an added flourish as her mouth twitched indecisively, “but I suppose I’m not opposed to one now.”

“How lucky for me.”

Tom held out his hand to help her up. An act of chivalry not out of character for him when he desired something, and when his thumb grazed her ring finger, Hermione begrudgingly sighed. The damsel clearly willing to save him from his distress, but not without some light teasing. 

In the spirit of continuing to inflict torture on Tom, Hermione gestured towards a small gallery across the street. “Have you been yet?”

“No. What’s the exhibit on?”

“Muggle curiosities.”

_____________________________

In a hundred years, Tom wouldn’t have imagined himself willingly standing across from a Harry Houdini straightjacket. The insulting comparison of the muggle word magic to his powers boiling his blood under the surface. The awaiting monkey’s paw and shrunken heads in the exhibit not guaranteed to improve his mood into less enraged, but his companion appeared to miss the scent of Tom’s reeking displeasure.

She laughed at the novelties.

A clever comment tossed his way.

The steady lightness in her fraying at his nerves, but weren’t her cupid-bow lips the color of a poinsettia. A beauty, or a poison. A ruby-red reason for Tom to stop obsessing over that uncomfortably ill feeling that hadn’t quit tormenting his chest since the Hepzibah Smith appointment, and to thank Hermione for the temporary relief, Tom played nice.

A laugh echoed.

A brush of his fingertips against the back of her hand.

A committed appearance to behaving like a normal, sensible date until their elderly docent left the room to pick up a ringing phone, and once he did, Tom steered Hermione back into the previous space. A silencing finger pressed against her lips until Tom finished murmuring an incantation that opened the door to the empty Ford Thunderbird, his eyebrow cocked as a dare. A reason to hop in not immediately coming to Hermione's mind judging by her gaping gob, but after an eye roll, she indulged Tom's whims. 

A free fall dive for her into the naughty end of the pool without Hermione needing to hear Tom’s prepared spiel about how the car's name was pure blasphemy that they should rightfully punish. The thought of smug muggles gloating over the car's creation something that made Tom's skin crawl when he'd much prefer digging his nails into the leather seats- cover something sleek with sweat, and semen, and simmering hate. 

The North American supernatural namesake of the Thunderbird surely hating to see its mythology attached to metal, and out of solidarity for another divine being screwed over by clueless muggles, Tom intended to thoroughly defile a symbol of their audacity after following behind Hermione.

The woman in his arms and his lap before the windows finished magically tinting black.

Her legs spread wide for him. 

Her back against his chest with the car's stick shift between her thighs. A tickled laugh dying in her throat when Tom nudged her forward, pushed her sex into park. A slow rocking back and forth against the shift soon filling the car with Hermione's heady, intoxicating scent after Tom lifted her dress, eased lace aside to stroke her wet labia against leather. 

The gearhead little by little going in.

That first broken whimper from her driving Tom wild, and when Hermione reached back to securely wrap her arm around his neck, he roughly grabbed her hips. A possessive lift of her body up and down. A push to the limits of depravity until the shiny knob lay buried nine inches deep and damp in her, and they both groaned. Her eyes squeezed shut from the stretch. His exhales beating against her neck. 

Their stares only meeting in the rearview mirror once she found a rhythm that threw her head back, made her lips wobble.

The shame no longer mattering if she was this full. 

This close.

"Say it," she whispered, swiveling her hips. "Say it."

"You disgust me," Tom growled, one hand dropping off her hip to free his erection. "You're no better than a muggle slut," he sunk his teeth into her shoulder, fisted his shaft against her buttocks. "A cheap, forgettable _mudblood._ ”

He leaned forward and parted her.

Her palm smacking the dash when Hermione blubbered and cried. The shift soaked and sliding. A steady aroused gush dripping from her slit onto Tom’s hand that he smeared up to ease his way inside of her body again and again. 

The man and the machine filling her into filthy.

_____________________________

It's winter when she haunts him.

A full month since Tom's last seen Hermione, and although the harsh wind had robbed his cheeks of color since November, her skin had a bronze tint that made her eyes look light and lively. The color of cinnamon rich cider. A warmth that could make any sap feel homesick for the fall, and Tom's jaw clenched.

He didn't appreciate the weak impulse to rest his cold hands on her.

The needy urge to see if she felt as welcoming as she looked.

The twinge of self-hate mixing with jealousy flooding his system once he realized that he'd have to turn around without learning the answer to that puzzling question since Hermione was merrily laughing in Tom’s neighborhood pub with Cygnus Black. The most reliably surly wizard in town. A thoroughly married, blood-purity obsessed, wizard who had more gold than wits, but Hermione smiled for him as if he set the stars in the sky.

As Tom hung back in the doorway, Hermione leaned in close.

Her hand resting on the Black bastard’s bicep. 

An offered cigarette accepted, but it was Tom who felt lit up long after he'd left.

_________________________

He was supposed to bed her and forget.

It wasn't Tom’s style to trudge through a field of lilac-covered co-dependence.

The aromatic sage swaying in the breeze.

The last of his steps ending in front of an in the middle of nowhere cabin that Tom had gone through the trouble of finding a few days after sordid thoughts of Cygnus and Hermione continued to batter against his brain. And before knocking on the door, he pictured tying her down. A rope over her calves and legs and waist. A present for only his unwrapping as if he had the right. 

But who else could treat her as savagely as her kinks demanded? Who else could more appreciate a woman so silky fine and fierce than someone who'd grown up with so few possessions. A man with a weakness for owning unique, magical objects that others would die for.

At the sound of feet shuffling behind the door, Tom briefly considered her turning him away. She’d never asked for more. She‘d never once suggested needing anyone to regularly flatter, fawn over, or fuck her. The witch radiated an aura of self-sufficiency in spades, but why then did Hermione appear small and vulnerable when she opened the door? Her stare never resting too long on one place. Her hand reflexively tugging her kimono sleeve down to meet her wrist.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not up for company tonight."

"Hermione-"

"No, you don't understand-" she cut herself off, humorlessly laughed. "No, how could you possibly understand anything about me when I don't even know your name-"

"It's Tom."

For a beat, Hermione's mouth fluttered. 

Her reply to that lost to the air. The absurdity of only then learning the gloriously common name of someone who'd she'd been uncommonly intimate with seemingly obliterating her ability to carry on to the next step of proper speaking etiquette, and Tom took a chance. 

He stepped forward, cupped her cheeks in his hands.

A calming manipulation.

A tender touch before he kissed her, showed her from taste to taste how useless names could be when they shared something more. A balance. A slow burning similarity. That rarely spoken of yearning to treat others roughly, or be treated roughly, and didn't his pretty pet yield under the grip of someone who wasn't afraid to wield power.

Her fingers hooking around his lapels. A tug of him forward. A soft pleading to make her feel better that Tom mistook for her usual saucy sighs until she winced against his mouth.

Tom lifted his hand off her arm. "Did that hurt you?"

Hermione pitifully shook her head.

That meek response from her narrowed Tom’s eyes into lethal sharpness. "Did someone else hurt you?" 

He didn't wait for her answer. He tugged her robe down. Her body as lovely as ever if not for the jagged word mudblood seared into her arm. The wound oozed hate, and he couldn't wait to give it back.

"What happened?" 

A tear dropped off her chin before she could answer. 

A flinch at the memory.

"I met a Black who plays too rough."

_______________________

On any clear-skied Sunday, Cygnus Black could be counted on taking his wife Drusilla and their bright-eyed daughter Bellatrix to the cliffs by his manor. A time for sea salt-scented reflection. An opportunity to show off their smart new robes and top of the line stroller if they "happened" to run into any neighbors. The best in show best when shown off, and didn't they preen and beam after passing a handsome wizard who had a knack for flattering others. 

His admiring look making their morning.

The couple's delighted chatter carrying in the wind long after they'd walked away before a sudden violent gust sent the small family over a rocky edge to break their backs on boulders. The seagulls free to pick them over. The tiny split in half daughter reminding Tom of a cracked china doll with her snowy white skin and raven ringlets. Her Mary Jane-covered foot twitching one last time when he looked down to gloat over returning Black pain, and for the second time in his life, his chest hollowed out.

A sense of loss seeping between his ribs.

_______________________

Into his pillow, Hermione hid her laugh between a gasp. 

A blissed out pop of relief that had nothing to do with the man on his knees for her.

That cruel mouth of Tom’s was in use for her pleasure. His finger to two to three to too many curving inside of her. A steady push and curl and push until Hermione bit down on fabric. Tom’s fistful of sordid stretching fluttering her lashes into closed when she thought she could take no more, but as Hermione’s hips lifted off the bed to drip cum pearls down to Tom Riddle’s elbow, she counted her blessings.

For the Horcrux she stole out from under him, for the carved in words that had “spontaneously” healed on her arm, and for the loss of Tom’s most devoted warrior to his fragile male impulses. All those future battles that he’d already lost by making the mistake of trusting her, and a shamelessly satisfied Hermione couldn’t wait to return to a future after she’d trashed the past.

What she’d find could be beyond brutal this time. A nasty surprise always greeted her after a twist of her glamored ring, but a post-war Hermione didn’t mind going scorched earth if she could bury Tom’s goals under first.

A hard won miracle for her that didn’t need a prayer, though his fingers devotedly met inside of her.

____________________________

It’s spring when Tom realizes that she’s never coming back.

That the one woman who could have kept his attention prisoner had deserted him without a trace.

Her cottage abandoned. Her last name never revealed, and the last time they’d kissed in winter, he’d wasted precious seconds with her in bed just idly grazing his touch over the infinity design on her gold ring. A curious following of his finger around and around the design without ever once realizing that he was the one out of the loop. 

**Author's Note:**

> In all fairness, this was supposed to be PWP, but (apparently) I’m a plot skank. Yep, me and Tom are a sucker for the extra P. 
> 
> That dirty dirty P that I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
